


The Invisible Weapon

by shxnji



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Murder Mystery, Sherlock - Freeform, Sherlock Being Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-22
Updated: 2018-08-22
Packaged: 2019-07-01 01:58:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15764277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shxnji/pseuds/shxnji
Summary: wow! a work that's something other than evangelion??i recently got back into sherlock and i wrote this as a contest entry for the sherlock amino, i thought it was probably one of my better works. anyway, hope you enjoy!





	The Invisible Weapon

**Author's Note:**

> wow! a work that's something other than evangelion??  
> i recently got back into sherlock and i wrote this as a contest entry for the sherlock amino, i thought it was probably one of my better works. anyway, hope you enjoy!

“Sherlock, we’ve got a case,” John said, looking up from his computer. “You might want to have a look at this.”

Sherlock jumped out of his seat, practically bouncing to look over his roommate’s shoulder.

“Dear Sherlock,” the letter began. Sherlock scoffed.

_“Dear Sherlock. My husband, Charles, was murdered last week and no matter how many policemen and investigators I’ve talked to, none of them have been able to tell me what happened!_

_Charles left for a business trip last Monday. He was supposed to return on Wednesday, and when he didn’t come home, I called him and texted him and did everything I could to get in touch with him._

_I received a call from the police on Wednesday night, saying Charles had been murdered. A pool of water and blood surrounded his body. He was covered in stab wounds but there was no sign of a weapon, and no sign of forced entry. But the most disturbing part is that his two front teeth, his eyes, and a few locks of his hair were missing._

_Please, please, please, can you help me? I don’t know who to go to. You are my last hope._

_Sincerely, Martha Lancaster.”_

Sherlock’s eyes scanned the computer screen, taking in the information quickly. “Fascinating,” he breathed, a smirk creeping onto his lips. “Oh, I love a good murder! Is it Christmas? It must be Christmas,” Sherlock exclaimed, tossing his robe on the floor and dashing into the other room to get dressed.

“Jesus Christ, he acts like a little kid,” John muttered, shaking his head.

Only a few moments later they were on a plane to the murder scene. It was a few hours away, and Mycroft owed them a favor, so they borrowed his private plane. John sat with his computer in his lap, already typing away.

“ _The Invisible Weapon?_ Really?” sneered Sherlock, leaning in to look at John’s computer screen. John rolled his eyes. “The readers like it.”

“Hm,” Sherlock grunted, settling back into his seat. The rest of the ride was mostly silent besides the monotonous key clacking.

They arrived at the scene, a cabin in the woods covered in snow. The cool air bit at John’s nose—he breathed into his hands to warm them up.

“Oh, you’re ‘ere!”

The two were greeted by a short, elderly man with stark white hair and large eyes, magnified by his ridiculously strong glasses prescription. He wore a thick coat, long brown pants held up by suspenders tucked into a plaid shirt, and comically large boots.

Sherlock examined him.

_Around 70 years old. Chapped hands. Blisters. Chipped fingernails crusted with some sort of paint or lacquer. Deep forehead lines and crow’s feet, probably used to squinting. Due to eye problems or from looking at small objects—an artist? Though he was old, his hands did not shake. Ah, yes, a dollmaker. His pant legs were covered in small synthetic hairs and shards of ceramic. Steady hands were needed to paint small details onto a doll. A keychain was hooked to his belt loop. Obviously he owned the cabins._

“So you must be the famous Sherlock ‘olmes,” said the old man, nodding his head. “Right this way, I’ll show you the cabin where Mr. Lancaster stayed.”

Sherlock and John followed the cabin keeper to the front door, where he used his keys to unlock it.

Sherlock’s gaze was drawn to the red footprints imprinted in the snow. Bloody boot tracks.

“And ‘ere’s the body,” the cabin keeper continued, gesturing to Mr. Lancaster’s corpse in the same way a realtor would reveal a master bedroom. “I’m sure Mrs. Lancaster told you all about the event.”

“Yes,” said John. He pulled out a notebook and pencil. “Did you happen to hear any screams or signs of struggle on the night of his murder?”

The cabin keeper shook his head. “The snow must’ve absorbed the sound, and since there’s so much of it out ‘ere, I couldn’t ‘ear a thing!” he claimed. Sherlock was already examining the crime scene. Just as Mrs. Lancaster had described, the body was surrounded by a puddle of water, stab wounds, missing body parts... but there was something odd about the injuries.

“John,” said Sherlock, “These don’t look like ordinary stab wounds. The penetration wound looks too round and large to be from a knife of some sort.”

John kneeled beside the body, examining the trauma.

“Yeah, it’s definitely not a knife wound. And the eyes were extracted with such care that it looks like it must have been done by a surgeon,” he noted.

“What would a killer need with eyes, teeth, and hair?” Sherlock mumbled to himself. He began to rummage throughout the room until he found a wallet in the dresser drawer.

“Ah! Wallet wasn’t stolen. Why didn’t they take the wallet?” he pondered, pacing the floors. Now things were getting exciting—his mind was racing a million miles per hour. “It seems they only wanted to harvest parts of his body, they didn’t want to murder for money, even though by the looks of his wallet and clothing, Mr. Lancaster was a wealthy man...”

He paused.

Turning slowly, he examined the cabin keeper starting from his feet to his head. “Are those your shoes?” Sherlock asked, eyes fixed on the worn boots.

“Oh, no, I had to borrow ‘em from a friend since I lost mine,” he claimed. First mistake.

Sherlock locked eyes with him. “And where were you the night of the murder?”

“My doll shop,” the man replied. “I’m a doll maker.”

“Thank you for confirming my theory. May we see your shop?” he asked, eyebrows raised as if he was genuinely curious and not as if he were just about to solve a murder case.

The doll maker, who introduced himself as Joseph Appleman, led the two to his shop. It was small, much like the cabins, but was more like a shed.

“My guess is that a robber got in and killed Mr. Lancaster. It’s such a shame, really,” Joseph lamented. Sherlock squinted. _A robber?_ he thought. _But it was already confirmed that none of his items had been stolen. Why would he blame a robber?_

Upon opening the door, a ray of gold light poured out onto the snow outside. It looked like something out of a storybook—wooden shelves lined with porcelain dolls, delicate tools spread on a desk with thousands of tiny paint vials. The walls were yellowed and peeling, indicating that the cabin was around 60+ years old. The wooden floorboards were squeaky when stepped upon. But the most unsetting thing about the room was the dolls, however beautiful they were.

They seemed to stare at them as they entered the workshop, following their every movement like a predator sizing up its prey.

“Quite the collection you have here,” John commented, beginning to explore the area. Sherlock was crouched over examining some paint stains on the floor.

“Thank you very much,” Joseph replied, body language relaxed.

“Interesting,” Sherlocked said to himself, studying the dolls now.

_Smooth skin, very well taken care of. These dolls were displayed and unsold, so they must have particular sentimental value. Very intricate details, might take about a week to complete. Hair, real? Eyes not covered with lacquer—very unusual. Dry and dull._

“John, come h—“

He was cut off by the sound of a door slamming. The detective and companion both whipped their heads around to find Joseph locking the door behind them.

Of course, Sherlock had known this would happen, he had known it all along. John, however, tensed visibly and moved his hand to his belt.

“Sorry. Just wanted to keep the draft out,” Joseph said slowly.

“Unlock that door,” John ordered, voice serious yet slightly uncertain.

“Sorry boys, I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

“Why?” Sherlock piped in. “Because you’re going to murder us the way you murdered Charles Lancaster?”

The killer was quiet.

“Oh, do get it over with. Did you really think we would figure it out? The stolen body parts, the new boots. Even John could solve it.”

John scowled at him, pursing his lips.

“Have you really not figured it out yet?”

Silence.

“Oh for god’s sake,” Sherlock scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Look, the boots he’s wearing are three sizes too big, meaning that he stole some last minute so his bootprints wouldn’t match the bloody ones in the snow. The water surrounding his body was caused by a stab with an icicle, it melted after time so there would be no weapon for us to search for fingerprints. The missing body parts, he uses them to make his dolls, with real human eyes, hair, and teeth—he didn’t take any money because all he needed was the body parts. And the reason there’s no sign of forced entry is because he has the keys to all the cabins.” He paused for dramatic effect. “Make sense now?”

“Christ, you’re a sick bastard,” John breathed, shaking his head in disbelief. Joseph was smiling, a sinister grin that was enough to make the devil jealous.

“I’ve ‘eard you were good, but this is... this is fascinating,” he said.

Another eye roll from Sherlock. “Quite simple, really. Now, are you going to come quietly or are we going to have some trouble?” Silence. “Trouble it is, then.”

Before anything else was said, John unsheathed a gun from his belt.

“Not today,” he hissed through clenched teeth, pointing the gun at the murderer. Joseph held his hands up and backed away.

“Listen, boys, I—I don’t want this, you don’t want this. Let’s be reasonable,” he countered, voice trembling.

“Turn around,” John commanded. “Hands against the wall.” Joseph did as was told, and was promptly handcuffed. The police were then called, and Sherlock met Lestrade outside.

“Cabin keeper was the killer, used human body parts for dolls, blah blah blah,” Sherlock explained. His head was working much too quickly to articulate a proper sentence.

“Alright then,” said Lestrade, and he was off.

Sherlock turned his coat up against the wind, snow striking against the contrast of his dark hair.

“Good work, Dr. Watson,” he stated, a smirk tugging at the edges of his lips. “Another case solved.”


End file.
